Isabelle

Hark! sweet Isabelle, hark to my lute,As softly it plaineth o'erThe story of one to whose lowly suitThy heart shall beat no more!List to its tender plaints, my love,Sad as the accents of saints, my love,Who mortal sin deplore!

Awake from your slumber, Isabelle, wake,'Tis sorrow that tunes these strings;A last farewell would the minstrel takeOf her whose beauty he sings:The moon seems to weep on her way, my love,And, shrouded in clouds, seems to say, my love,No hope with the morning springs!

Deep on the breeze peals the hollow soundOf the dreary convent bell;Its walls, ere a few short hours wheel round,Will girdle my Isabelle!

They'll take thee away from these arms, love,And bury thy blossoming charms, love,Where midnight requiems swell.

At the high altar I see thee kneel,With pallid and awe-struck face;I see the veil those looks concealThat shone with surpassing grace—The shade will prey on thy bloom, my love,While I shall wend to the tomb, my love,And leave of my name no trace.

We lov'd and we grew, we grew and we lov'd,Twin flowers in a dewy vale;The churchman's cold hand hath one remov'd,The other will soon wax pale;O fast will be its decline, my love,As this dying note of mine, my love,Lost in the evening gale!